


I Am the Switch That Derails Your Train

by theladyscribe



Series: Roadtripping [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Humor, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:24:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But. And of course there’s a but, because it’s <i>Jo</i>, and with her, there’s always something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am the Switch That Derails Your Train

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [](http://ada-c-eliana.livejournal.com/profile)[ada_c_eliana](http://ada-c-eliana.livejournal.com/)’s prompt, “I am the raspberry seed you can’t floss out.” Title is from Darkwing Duck.

It works too well. He’s finally convinced Jo into that little black mini-skirt and red top he found while searching Goodwill for new old concert t-shirts (what? They were in the wrong place on the rack). But. And of course there’s a but, because it’s _Jo_ , and with her, there’s always something.

The little black mini-skirt’s working far too well for his liking. The guy Dean’s currently scamming has spent most of his time trying to look down her top, not even noticing the fact that he’s already down almost $200 on this game alone.

And the worst part is Jo looks like she’s actually enjoying the scumbag’s attention. She’s flirting and smiling back at the jerk, completely ignoring the fact that his eyes are glazed over from too much beer and his teeth are yellow from cigarettes. She tosses her head, letting her hair fall over her shoulders and the guy practically starts salivating. She nudges him and he turns back to the table, concentrating on lining up his shot.

Jo quirks an eyebrow at Dean, and he just stares evenly back at her. She idly fingers the gold chain at her neck, and his own eye is drawn toward her plunging neckline and he’s thinking that next time—scratch that. There’s not gonna be a next time.

“Dude, it’s your turn,” the guy says, shaking Dean from his thoughts.

He’s about to make his final shot when he glances up to see Jo bending forward to whisper in the guy’s ear, her top falling forward and oh God, he hadn’t realized it was _that_ revealing. He scratches the shot, and it costs him the game and $200.

“Better luck next time, dude,” the guy says as he’s collecting his money from Jo. She’s got a tight smile on her face, and Dean knows as soon as they’re out of the bar, she’s going to let him have it for losing all that money. The guy counts out the bills a second time and he grabs a pen off a nearby table, scribbling his name and number on a fifty. “Next time you’re in town, sweetheart, look me up.”

He hands the fifty back to Jo with nothing less than a lecherous grin, and that’s it. The next thing Dean knows, the guy is wiping blood from his face and Dean’s own knuckles are stinging in protest. And then the scumbag is being held back by a couple of other guys, and Jo’s dragging Dean out of the bar, her vice-like grip around his arm.

“What the hell was that?” she spits once they’re outside.

He shrugs out of her grip and begins walking toward the car.

“Dean!” She jogs to catch up with him, spinning so she’s walking backward. “What the hell was that?” she bites out.

“Nothing,” he mutters.

“Like hell nothing,” she retorts. She stops, and he tries to sidestep her, but she keeps dogging after him. “What. Was. That?”

Thing is, Dean’s not sure _what_ it was. All he knows is that guy shoved that fifty in her hand and he saw red. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Answer me, dammit.”

She’s standing between him and the car now, and there’s nowhere else for him to go, so finally he mutters, “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

There’s no humor in her laughter. “Are you serious? Because if I remember correctly, it was your idea to have me wear this get-up in the first place.” She gestures to her outfit, and he can’t really help it if his eyes travel up her body from her high-heeled boots to the gold chain at her neck. “And you’ve got no right to punch a guy for doing exactly what you wanted him to do.”

“He _propositioned_ you,” Dean protests, and Jo rolls her eyes at him.

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing in his place, Dean.”

He opens his mouth to protest that, too, only to clamp it shut on the realization that she’s probably right. “But I wouldn’t’ve written my number down on a fifty.”

“Right. You would have used a hundred.”

“Wouldn’t use money,” he grits out, and that’s the truth. He prides himself on never, ever, paying for sex—his own twisted honor code, some strange belief that you can’t put a price on pleasure without completely ruining the experience.

She must understand his unspoken logic, because her voice softens. “Still, Dean, I can handle myself. That guy was just feeling over-confident after beating you at pool.” She pauses. “Speaking of which, is there a reason you scratched that shot?”

“Can’t win them all,” he says, and he shoulders her lightly aside so he can unlock the car door.

She shakes her head at him as she walks around to the passenger side. “If you say so, Dean.”

The ride back to the motel is quiet, the silence awkward. They walk into the room to find Sam passed out at his computer, a pile of research books acting as a pillow for his head. Dean manhandles his brother (who mutters something about “no more computer gremlins”) into a bed and sits down to take off his shoes. Jo sits across from him, and he can feel her eyes boring a hole into his head.

“What?”

“Tomorrow, we’ll have to find a different bar to go to,” she says. “Especially if you want me to wear this again.”

“You won’t,” he says shortly. “We’re burning that outfit.”

She frowns. “This is really bothering you, isn’t it?” He looks away, as if that will hide the thoughts running through his head. “Dean, you know I wouldn’t have agreed to wear it if it made me uncomfortable, right?”

He’s not sure how to answer that, because she’s not taking into account the fact that it makes _him_ uncomfortable – far moreso than it should, because it’s just Jo, after all.

She grabs his hand suddenly, and he jumps a little only to realize that she’s got a washcloth in one hand and she’s wiping away the blood on his knuckles. “You’ll probably want to put some Neosporin on it,” she says as she rubs lightly at his hand. “Who knows what sort of diseases that guy has.” She looks up at him, a small smile on her face.

He blinks for a moment and then laughs. “Yeah.”


End file.
